I wake with a start.
The chamber shakes violently, a deep rumbling coursing through the walls as if the world itself were tearing apart. The ground beneath me is unsteady, vibrating with a force that rattles my teeth. My heart pounds as I push myself upright, disoriented and raw from the dream.
Then I see her.
Binah.
She stands against the far wall, her pale fists slamming into the unyielding stone. Her movements are wild, desperate, the sound of her blows lost in the chaos. The walls do not crack, but they shudder beneath her assault, groaning as if alive.
"Stop!" My voice is a rasp, harsh and broken, cutting through the shaking.
She freezes, her head snapping toward me. For a moment, everything is still—the air, the rumble, even the blood pulsing in my ears. Her gaze locks onto mine, and something in her eyes chills me deeper than the stone floor ever could.
Binah opens her mouth.
No sound comes out, but the motion is enough to send a jolt of terror through my core. Her mouth stretches unnaturally wide, a black void at its center, deeper and darker than anything I have ever known. It is not just a mouth—it is absence, a hollow that devours the light and pulls at something deep inside me.
I stumble back, my legs catching beneath me. My breath is ragged, my body trembling as if her silence carries a weight that could crush me.
Then she stops.
She closes her mouth slowly, almost mechanically, her form flickering at the edges. She turns and moves to a corner of the room, folding her arms around her knees. Her rocking begins—slow and deliberate, her head bowed, her form hunched as though she might collapse into herself.
The shaking ceases.
But the silence is worse.
The air is damp, heavy with the scent of stone and despair. I force myself to my feet, my head throbbing as I take in the small, cube-shaped chamber. There is no door, no window, only faint slivers of light seeping through cracks in the walls.
I notice the puddles first—tiny pools of water gathered in the grooves between stones. The sight of them ignites a desperate thirst, the ache in my throat unbearable. I drop to my hands and knees, crawling toward the nearest puddle.
The water glistens faintly, its surface rippling with each ragged breath I take. I hesitate, the memory of the dream—the egg, the fight, the Tall Ones—lingering in my mind like a warning. But the thirst is too much. I lower my face to the puddle, drinking cautiously.
The water is cold, metallic. It burns my dry throat as it goes down, but it is life. I drink just enough to quiet the desperation, then sit back, my breaths slowing. The air feels heavier now, as though the cell itself presses in around me.
Thoughts pelt my mind, sharp and unrelenting, like arrows piercing through the fog of fear. Memories from the dining hall flash vividly: the eerie calm before the chaos, the heavy tea, the sudden silence as bodies slumped and fell.
We were drugged. That much is clear. But why?
My pulse quickens as a singular possibility takes root, a thought that tightens like a vice around my chest. A challenge. A trial.
This is a test.
Malkiel does not weep for the broken. The words echo in my mind, the voice of Uncle Titus sharp and clear. His warnings, once vague and abstract, now crystallize into brutal truth. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath, but the air feels heavier still.
My gaze shifts to Binah, her form huddled in the corner. She rocks faintly, her eyes distant and unfocused, as though trapped in a fear she cannot escape. I wonder, for the first time, if her silence is not a choice but a prison.
"We are being tested," I whisper to no one, the words brittle in the oppressive air.
The chamber offers no reply.
I force myself to my feet, the room swaying around me. Binah's silent rocking grates against my nerves, but I push it aside. Focus. I must find a way out.
I start at one corner of the cell, running my hands along the cold, damp stone. The texture is rough, uneven, and wet. Each groove and crevice is a potential escape route, but most are too narrow, too shallow. I move slowly, methodically, feeling every inch of the wall.
The hole at the center of the cell catches my eye—a small, circular opening barely large enough for refuse. I crouch beside it, peering into its depths. Darkness swallows my gaze; no light reaches whatever lies below. The smell wafts up, acrid and rotten. Not an option.
I stand and continue my search, moving toward another corner. My fingers trace the outlines of each stone until they find a crack—wider than the others. I stop, heart quickening as I examine it closer.
A green liquid seeps from the fissure, thick and viscous. The smell hits me immediately—pungent and foul, like decayed vegetation mixed with sulfur. The liquid pools at the base of the wall, forming a slimy puddle that makes my stomach churn.
Binah's eyes are on me as I probe the crack with caution. The stone is brittle here, more porous than elsewhere in the cell. I dig my fingers into the fissure, prying at it with all my strength. It widens slightly under pressure but remains stubbornly intact.
The green liquid continues to ooze out, coating my fingers in its sticky embrace. I pull back in disgust, wiping my hand on my thigh to rid myself of the foul substance.
"Nothing," I mutter under my breath.
Binah's rocking never stops. Her gaze follows every movement as if silently judging or perhaps waiting for something only she understands.
Desperation claws at me as I lean against the wall next to the crack, panting from exertion and frustration. The scent of decay clings to me now; it is inescapable.
There must be another way.
Time passes—how long, I cannot tell. Hours? Days? The darkness is unchanging, the silence broken only by the occasional plinking of water. Hunger gnaws at my insides, a relentless beast that grows louder with each passing moment.
I stare at it.
The crack from which the green liquid seeps. My body is weak.
I collapse onto my back.
The chamber feels colder than before, the walls pressing in, each breath harder to draw. My hunger gnaws at me now, no longer a dull ache but a feral, insistent roar. Every sound—Binah's faint rocking, the slow drip of water—grates against my senses, feeding the growing desperation.
I focus on the torq instead. Focus on the inside of your forehead. My mother's voice feels distant now, more memory than comfort. But it is all I have.
I close my eyes, tuning out everything else, and reach inward. The dark void blooms behind my eyelids, pinpricks of light flaring and fading in chaotic bursts. Slowly, the shapes resolve into clarity:
Name: Janus Ragnos.
True Name: Morvayn.
Rank: White-Gold.
Attributes: Dormant.
Shadow Roots: [13/1000].
I open my eyes, my heart sinking. The same information. No guidance. No solution. Just cold, unyielding truths etched in light. I slam a fist against the stone floor, the sound reverberating through the chamber.
"Why?" I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Why will it not help?"
Binah stirs in her corner. Her rocking slows, her violet eyes flicking toward me. She stands, her movements fluid yet unnerving, and approaches with silent steps. Her gaze shifts to the crack in the wall, to the green liquid oozing from its depths.
I follow her line of sight and recoil instinctively. The liquid's stench is unbearable now, acrid and sharp, turning my stomach before it even touches me.
"It is poison," I mutter, shaking my head. "I cannot…"
Binah kneels beside the fissure, her pale hand cupping the green liquid as though it is something precious. She stands slowly, her movements fluid and unsettling, and extends her hand toward me. The viscous liquid shimmers faintly in the dim light, thick and unnatural.
"No," I whisper, shaking my head, backing away until my shoulders press against the cold, unyielding wall. "I will not."
Her expression remains unreadable, but something sharp flashes in her violet eyes. A flicker of frustration—or pity. Her hand remains extended, steady and unrelenting. I turn my head to the side, refusing to meet her gaze, refusing to acknowledge what she wants me to do.
"I can't!" My voice cracks, raw with desperation. "I won't drink that!"
For a moment, nothing happens. The chamber is silent save for the faint plink of water dripping from the walls. Then Binah lowers her hand, tilting her head as if studying me. Her rocking has stopped. The flickering at the edges of her form grows wilder, as though she is losing control—or gaining it.
"Stay back!" I shout, panic rising as she takes a single, deliberate step toward me. My chest tightens. She seems larger now, her form towering, though her shape has not changed. It is her presence, oppressive and all-consuming, like a storm rolling in.
The blow comes before I can react.
Her hand strikes my cheek, not with force but with intent. It feels like ice and fire at once, and my vision blurs as I stagger sideways. My protests die in my throat as I try to catch my balance, but then I feel it—a pull, a force beyond reason. Invisible strings wrap around my limbs, jerking them into place like a puppet under her control.
"No!" I shout, but the word is stolen from me, swallowed by the chamber's oppressive silence. My arms rise against my will, my legs move forward, each step mechanical, forced. My heart pounds as I struggle, as I thrash against the unseen threads holding me captive, but it is useless. Binah's gaze pierces me, her hand raised, fingers twitching as though commanding the strings that bind me.
I am dragged to the fissure.
The green liquid gleams in the weak light, its foul stench filling my nostrils as I am forced to my knees. My head jerks forward, my mouth hovering just above the crack. I twist and pull against the invisible bonds, but Binah's control is absolute.
"Please!" I gasp, my voice breaking. "Don't do this!"
She tilts her head again, her expression unreadable, but there is no hesitation in her actions. My head lowers further, my lips brushing the edge of the crack. The smell overwhelms me, and I gag, but there is no escape.
My mouth meets the liquid.
The first taste is agony. Bitter, sour, and metallic, it burns my tongue and throat as it slides down, thick and clinging. I retch, but Binah does not let me pull away. The strings tighten, forcing my head down again. My feet kick uselessly against the floor, my fists clench and unclench, my entire body a battleground of resistance and submission.
Tears sting my eyes as despair takes hold. I am nothing in this moment, no more than a vessel for this vile substance, a tool for whatever purpose Binah has decided. Rage flares briefly, a hot spark in the cold depths of my mind. It burns bright and furious, but it is fleeting, snuffed out by the overwhelming force of her will.
I swallow.
The liquid courses through me, its rancid taste lingering long after it is gone. My stomach churns violently, and I double over, coughing and gagging. The strings release me, and I collapse onto the cold stone floor, trembling and weak.
For a moment, all is still.
Then the sound begins.
A low grinding, faint at first, but growing louder, more insistent. The chamber vibrates, the walls shuddering as stone grates against stone. My breath catches, hope battling with fear as I lift my head to see the source.
The crack in the wall widens, the green liquid seeping faster now. The grinding intensifies, and a section of the wall begins to shift.
Stone slides away, revealing a hidden door.
Light spills through, weak but undeniable, illuminating the chamber in a pale, sickly glow.